Clothespins ...

Nearly half-a-century ago, a large cloth bag filled with wooden clothespins, dangled from a metal hook and slid along in front of my nimble fingers as I hung dozens of diapers on backyard clotheslines as small children played around my feet. Sometimes I created a child-high clothesline by tying kite string from one tree trunk to another. That taut string, plus a dozen clothespins in an empty oatmeal box, enabled my young daughters to embark upon careers as wash women. Dolls were stripped naked on the spot and miniature dresses were hung upside down, along with mismatched socks and ragged lopsided bonnets.

Clothespins ...

When my granddaughter, Jayma, was three, she attached a bright red clothespin to sleeping Annie's ear. Red jewelry was a good color choice. It looked stunning on a black and white cat. Unfortunately, Annie wasn't into earrings at that time. Screaming wildly, she hurled herself across two tall trees, bounced off the side of the house and landed beneath a stalled lawnmower before Honey Gail could catch up with her and remove the cause of distress. Afterwards, poor Honey who had been nicotine-free for months, up-ended her purse on my kitchen table, pawing through the contents with shaking hands, searching for that one last cigarette she'd been saving for just such an occasion.

Clothespins ...

Plastic storage bags in the kitchen are easier to handle when held shut with clothespins instead of twistie ties. Papers in our home office are easier to organize since I replaced paper clips with clothespins.

The most important clothespin of all is the red one in my purse.

It's a long story, beginning with ... I'm not a credit card kind of person. Credit cards make me nervous. Change and progress make me nervous. I thrive on sameness. I'm comfortable with old fashioned money and I can handle a checkbook. Beyond those two things, I've never wanted or needed to go. I've never used an ATM machine. I have no idea how they work. If I want cash I go to the bank and fill out a check. In longhand, with my signature at the bottom.

About ten years ago, Honey Gail reasoned, bullied and sweet-talked me into getting a debit card. It nearly killed me. I was dragged into the debit card generation kicking, biting and pulling hair. The first few times I used the card my palms were wet and my head was spinning. In time, though, I made friends with that new way of doing business and today I can't imagine life without a debit card. I love my debit card. I love it, but I'm not what you would call a casual user. I tend to make hard work of the transaction. Receipts must be folded safely into the jaws of a red clothespin, and stored in an inside pocket of my favorite purse ... before I walk away from the cash register this folding and storing must take place ... otherwise, those little jibbles of paper will get lost before I make the proper deduction in my checkbook.

My grown daughters ... those same little girls who once loved clothespins ... find my system embarrassing. Every time I whip out that clothespin in public Karen asks why I don't use a paper clip. Over and over again I explain that paper clips don't work as well as clothespins. With eyes rolling she wants to know if a more discreet color is a possibility. Patiently, I assure her, red is best.

I've told you all this so you will be better able to appreciate the seriousness when I tell you my red clothespin broke today.

The only red one I had.

Broke.

Life is so hard ....